


Keep Me Where The Light Is

by nesrynfaliq



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Azriel is Sad, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Angst, Mor fixes that, NSFW, That's it, a little bit of torture at the beginning, and SIN, lots of sin, morielsmutweek, prompt, that's really all you need to know tbh, that's the plot, with kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/pseuds/nesrynfaliq
Summary: Prompt: ‘I’m sorry’ established relationship, set a few decades after the projected end of ACOWAR. Azriel returns late from a particularly harrowing mission. Mor finds him alone and in pieces in the training room and helps him heal. Lots of angst. Azriel’s POV. Obviously NSFW.'Mor leads him through the quiet, dark house, the door closing behind them as silently as it had opened. It might have felt like bars slamming shut on a prison cell, or the stone wall of a crypt sealing himself inside his own tomb but it doesn’t. With Mor’s hand slipping gently into his the dark house feels like an escape and he has left his demons at the door. They are not allowed in this place that she has warded with her light and her peace. She is the only thing with the power to bring him to his knees that is permitted to touch him here.'





	

Keep Me Where The Light Is

Azriel stalks into the training halls beneath the House of Wind a second, haunting soul tethered to the broken, battered one that resides within his body. The one that once was his and his alone. Now it belongs to all those who have stolen pieces from it over the decades, the ones he has killed or tortured or blackmailed or threatened for the sake of his court. His body has become a cemetery for all those he has claimed, having their revenge each day for what he did to them. It is a graveyard of monsters; his ghosts were demons long before he shattered their minds and buried them with the remnants of his soul.

That knowledge doesn’t ease the burden that threatens to finally break him at last.

Six hundred years. There are scars he’s carried upon his heart, his mind for six hundred years that have refused to fade as stubbornly as the marks upon his hands. Every day he wakes with the reminder of what his brothers did to him, the reminder of that fire, their cruelty, that terror written upon his skin. And upon his soul is the reminder of what _he_ has done, his own cruelty, his own sins, inked in blood and screams and just as inescapable. Too much. He has crossed some line, some line he didn’t think existed. But this is too much. This is finally too much.

It had taken hours to break the deserter, hours to understand the reasons behind his betrayal, why he had slaughtered four of his brothers, what he had hoped to gain, what secrets he had hoped to sell to their enemies. Those secrets died with him. Azriel was the last person ever to hear them and all those others who were involved have since been taken care of. His people are safe, his family is safe but he...he....

The screams still bother him. They shouldn’t, surely, after all this time. But they do. They still cut through him like that first day. He still remembers the soldier, his first. Rhys’s father had stood outside the room and looked down at him, his eyes the same violet as his brother’s but...Cold, dark, utterly devoid of Rhys’s compassion. He had told Azriel the man was an enemy, was working to destroy everything they knew, everything they had built. He had told him to discover what the male knew then to...take care of him. Azriel had done as commanded.

He still does as commanded. He knows that if he ever felt the strain becoming too much, if he went to his brother and told him that he couldn’t do this anymore, that six hundred years of death and nightmares filled with agony were too much that Rhys would let him step down immediately. He could shake off the role of spymaster, live somewhere quietly, peacefully, with Mor without the need for these grisly interruptions in the life they loved so much. He also knows that it would leave the court undefended, that no-one can do what he can. And he would never wish them to, would never wish _this_ upon anyone.

For all that they haunt him now he knows that if a day ever comes when the screams inside him go silent, when they no longer haunt his every step...that will be the day he becomes a monster in full and more of a danger to this court than he could ever be a guardian.

But he still wishes it would stop now, wishes he could stop reliving the last few hours, wishes he could find a moment of peace, just for a second, just a second, please, _please_.  

The training hall is dark and quiet at this hour, no-one else is out of their beds feeling the need to hit something, to work off the terrible, raging, consuming frustration that seems as though it’s about to burst free of the restraining cage of his bones. He is the only one awake now...And his ghosts.

He steps to one of the corners of the hall where several braced pads have been set up, soft wood covered by layers and layers of thick fabric, making them solid but safe to hit. Along the wall behind them, set out in neat rows like soldiers, like the neatly printed orders that find their way to his desk and tear another chunk of him, are variously sized gloves meant to be worn in the ring or when training alone with the targets. He ignores them.

His hands are still covered in dried blood from his last mission and he doesn’t bother to try and cleanse them, to rid himself of that reminder of what he has done, what he is. _Monster_ the darkness whispers to him. He shivers at the accusation but can’t bring himself to feel betrayed by it. When they had come to him in his childhood and promised him power, promised him salvation, the shadows that sing to him had not promised him comfort or sweet words. They had only promised truth. That was all they had ever given to him in the six hundred years they had served him.

Settling into the stance that’s as familiar to him now as breathing, Az sets his eyes upon the pad before him. His punches start off rhythmic and controlled, careful taps gauging distance, then stronger flurries of blows taught in the training camps and drills. But those aren’t enough, aren’t enough to quiet the roaring in his head, aren’t enough to douse the fire boiling his blood, aren’t enough to silence the screams rattling through his bones.

He increases his pace, his attacks becoming less practiced, less rhythmic, more wild and untamed as he feels himself slipping. Control, through all these years control has been his sword, his shield, his armour, his anchor. Keeping himself in check had always meant keeping himself alive. But sometimes, in the dark, in the quiet, the monsters slip out to reclaim their own.

 His arms swing in wide arcs, wasting time, wasting power, all the things he was specifically taught not to do. His hands strike harder and harder and the sudden blaze of pain that sparks up his arms is a welcome feeling. It grounds him and for a moment it helps. It’s a release, an expression of the things that he must keep inside, that he must not let escape, that he must bind tight to himself lest they poison anyone else. The pulse of relief is only ever temporary.

 _His vision blurs and the room around him dissolves, reforming into another that is dark and cramped and smells strongly of blood and despair. He is crouched on the floor, his expression cool, composed even as he crumbles into ruins on the inside, as the man screams before him._ His fist makes contact with the pad at a blinding speed and strength again and again and again and the harsh, unyielding rhythm is the only thing that’s stopping him from sinking to his knees and letting the darkness within overwhelm him at last.

The skin between his knuckles splits and blood seeps from the cracks in his self. He ignores it, even as it pulses in thin scarlet ribbons over his palms and the backs of his hands, thick and hot and wet, clenched between his fingers. But he’s too focused on the screaming in his head, in banishing it, in chasing the past that tugs at him, tries to slip its arms around him and draw him back towards it, like a scorned lover. But he won’t let it, can’t let it, if he gives into that now there will be no saving him, no finding him, no dragging him from that abyss, not for anything.

The one corner of his mind that can think past his pain and his fear dimly registers the sound of distant footsteps, frantic, running, running towards him.

“Azriel!” 

The scream rips through the thick veil that’s shrouding him from his surroundings, pierced only by the soft pulses of pain that come from the continued striking of his fists against the pads. His name. Her voice. His name in her mouth. The running footsteps, hers too he realises vaguely, get closer, faster, louder, thundering like a heartbeat against the smooth stone floors of the training hall.

“Azriel! Azriel stop, please stop, Az-“ He shudders, her voice growing more distant, her words blending with the words of his captor as he had begged for an end.

“Azriel, Az look at me, look at me, listen to me.” She doesn’t touch him but her voice strikes a chord in him like a physical blow all the same as he registers the deep throb of fear and agony that runs through it. He raises his head, looks over at her, his vision still slightly bleary, as though he’s seeing her through a thick, choking fog. “Stop,” she whispers, orders, pleads. “Stop, Az.”

This time, for her, he obeys the words.

Trembling he lets his hands drop. They’re stiff and sore from the damage done to them and the fresh blood that’s starting to dry over the old. Mor’s eyes are fixed on them where they hang limp and useless at his sides, wide and horrified at what he’s done. Reaching down she tries to gently take hold of one of them but the moment her skin brushes against his he jerks violently away from her.

Centuries worth of disgust and doubt well up in him and overwhelm him. Though they’ve been together for over fifty years now and though he loves her and knows and accepts that she loves him- in that moment, the sight of her soft, smooth, unmarred hand brushing against his burned, twisted, bloody one is unbearable to him.

The brief flash of hurt that flares in her warm brown eyes twists in his gut a moment later and she pulls backs, pain flooding her beautiful face. All she wants, he knows, is to be able to reach out to him, to help him, and his rejection stings with the weight of five hundred years of distance and denial.

His remaining strength crumbles at the sight of what he’s done to her and the words come to his lips in a hoarse, breathless rasp, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes flick back up to his but he drops his gaze almost the moment they connect, unable to bring himself to look at her. His chest is still heaving from his recent exertion, his blood still drips quietly onto the stone floor at their feet, his vision still swims and blurs but he breathes again, “I’m sorry.”

Mor opens her mouth to answer but it turns into a cry of alarm as he sways on the spot a moment before his knees buckle. Faster than he can see she darts forwards, her arms sliding around his chest, and catches him. Sinking to the ground with him she lowers him down with heartbreaking tenderness, gentling his fall.

Her fingers stroke lightly through his hair as she steadies him but he can’t stop saying those words over and over and over apologising for a multitude of sins. He’s sorry for getting into this state in the first place but more so for letting her see him like this. He’s sorry for what he’s done, what he’s become, what he’s had to do to stop their court from drowning. But he’s also sorry for the things that he didn’t do, the things that he didn’t stop, the people that he didn’t save with his brand of death. And he’s sorry for her. Sorry for ever thinking that he could be with her, that they could make this work, that it could ever last- a dreamer and a nightmare in love.

As though she can hear these thoughts Mor pushes back his hair and cups his face between her hands, lifting it up to hers. “Look at me,” she whispers when he closes his eyes, averting his gaze, “Look at me, Azriel.” He can’t deny her anything, not her, and he makes himself meet those usually soft, tender brown eyes which he now finds blazing with fierce intensity. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispers to him, pressing her lips to his forehead and then touching her brow to his, her thumbs gently stroking his cheeks, “Nothing.”  

Unable to help himself he lowers his head again, shaking. What he’s done- But she picks up that dropped thread of thought as well, “You’re a good person,” she breathes and he snorts in derision before he can control the impulse. Anger flashes through her and with it a lashing of her power crackling through the air around them, “You are,” she growls.

Her voice softens but still radiates with that unmistakable power as she says those words, the ones that bind her to the magic that thrums in her veins, “I am the Morrigan,” she murmurs, “You know I speak the truth.”

 He raises his head and opens his eyes to watch her as she repeats the words, “You’re a good person, Azriel. You do what you have to, for your court. You do too much,” A crease appears between her brows, this isn’t the first time she’s said something like this, expressed her unease at the things he has to do, at the cost of keeping them safe.  “But you don’t take any pleasure in it, you never have. We all have to do things, _become_ things we would rather not...” She trails off and he knows that she of all people understands that, she who spends more time in the Court of Nightmares pretending to be something she’s not, pretending to be something darker, something worse, than any of them.

Taking a breath she goes on, “It doesn’t change who _you_ are.” Then, softer, “It doesn’t change how I feel, what I want...What I chose.”

He meets her eyes again at that, searching them for he doesn’t know what, yet he finds it. “I fell in love with _you_ , Az,” she murmurs softly, “With all of you.” He swallows tightly, watching her, barely daring to breathe, to move. “I always knew,” she continues quietly, “I knew what you were, I knew what you did for this court, I knew how you would come home to me sometimes-“ Despite her attempts at reassuring calm and certainty her voice trembles and cracks a little as she looks at him, the state he’s in. But it’s perfectly steady once more when she resumes. “I chose that,” she says, firm, certain, “I chose _you_. I love _you_.” She leans forwards and brushes her lips with aching tenderness against his, “I always will.”

Reaching down she lifts his hands up and examines them, wincing at the mess of bruised, bloodied flesh he’s made of his knuckles. Absently taking what she needs from a pocket realm she produces water and cloths and proceeds to clean enough of the blood to see through to the injuries below. Light blazes from her palm and he tries not to fidget as her magic heals him, his bones resetting themselves and sealing together, muscle and skin knitting seamlessly together again. She can’t do anything about the extensive burn scars that mottle his hands but when he flexes them it’s almost impossible to tell the damage he had done to himself. The only evidence of the abuse remaining is a faint pale flush to the new skin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and quiet, not quite looking at her as he speaks, not wanting to see the pain or the disappointment on her face at what he had done to himself.

He realises a moment later, as he turns his hands over, examining them, that she’s cleansed all of the blood from his skin, not merely his own.

Azriel lets his arms slide slowly around her, holding her close, breathing in her scent, grounding himself in her instead of the pads behind them. Mor shuffles into his lap and slides her arms around him as well, easing her fingers deeply into his hair, pulling him close.

“Are you ready to talk about it?” she murmurs quietly. She never asks him if he wants to talk about it, knows from decades’ worth of experience not to ask if he wants, or needs, almost anything because the answer would always be ‘no’.

He shakes his head slightly, his face still buried in her neck. He still only wants to escape from himself, from the torrent of memories and pain and terror that still rakes at him. He isn’t ready to face it yet. She nods, gently kissing the crown of his head, not pushing him or trying to coax words from him that he doesn’t have. Even though she’s never insisted upon this in all the years that he’s known her, a faint rush of gratitude for her understanding still spills through him in response.

Mor’s fingers stroke softly through his hair and she shifts slightly in his lap, hips pressing against his. “What do you want, Az?” she asks him quietly and he knows that she’s perfectly aware what he wants, what kind of escape he seeks now, the need that’s blazing through his blood like a poison to which she is the only cure.

 _You_ he wants to whisper, wants to growl the word, the need, into her ear and feel her shiver against him in answer. He wants to drag her hair back and kiss her neck, place a necklace of pale red marks around her throat and with each one whisper _you_ onto her skin, press it there like a tattoo, let it fill her up until she’s drowning in it. But he holds himself back. He knows that after their time apart she likely wants this too, would be more than happy to oblige him but...The way that he wants her, the extent to which he wants to lose himself in her tonight...He’s not sure if he can ask that of her, not sure if he can even give voice to it and permit her to hear it.

As with so many things left unspoken between them however, this isn’t something that she needs to hear him say to know. Her fingers gently grip his hair, the action somehow intimate, erotic, with the way she rocks against him once more. “Let me take you home,” she whispers softly. “Let me help you, Az,” she breathes quietly. “It’s all right,” she murmurs as he opens his mouth to say something, to protest, to quiet her, to agree with her, he doesn’t know.  

“It’s all right.” Her voice is soft and warm and so soothing he wants to sink into it, wants to sink into her and forget that the rest of the world exists, forget that he is a monster with a bruised and bloodied soul. He wants to let her heal that as she had his hands.

 “Let me take you home,” she says again, softly, words tinged with desperation.

“Yes,” is all he murmurs in response.

Darkness envelopes them as Mor holds him close and then her power wraps around them, pulling them through the fragile fabric of the world around them, winnowing them back to the small cottage they share nestled in the mountains just outside Velaris. It’s a lonely, quiet place, isolated but beautiful and peaceful. Relief flares through him like a heartbeat along with a rush of gratitude that she chose this spot instead of their townhouse. Even though it resides on the outskirts of the city it would still feel too restrictive, too caging and overwhelming for him now. And she knows that, knows him.  

Azriel stands, quiet, breathing in the chill night air, willing it to settle in his bones and quiet the roaring fire burning through his blood. Mor’s fingers slip softly around his wrist and the touch rouses him, causes him to open his eyes again. Her eyes on his she presses her other hand against the door of the cottage. It responds to her touch, swinging in on silent hinges to admit them. Only them. This is their place, near sacred for how strictly they adhere to that rule.

Mor leads him through the quiet, dark house, the door closing behind them as silently as it had opened. It might have felt like bars slamming shut on a prison cell, or the stone wall of a crypt sealing himself inside his own tomb but it doesn’t. With Mor’s hand slipping gently into his the dark house feels like an escape and he has left his demons at the door. They are not allowed in this place that she has warded with her light and her peace. She is the only thing with the power to bring him to his knees that is permitted to touch him here.  

She doesn’t pause or falter as they pass through the kitchen and living room into the small bedroom at the back of the house. Only once they’re safely ensconced within it, the door closed, making the scene feel even more private and intimate despite the fact that they’re already the only living beings for miles around, does she turn to face him. With a faint flicker of thought she kindles a few candles behind them and the room fills with a warm but soft glow, her eyes never leaving his even as the light no doubt throws the shadows in his eyes into greater relief.

Smooth and supple as warm honey she steps forwards until there’s nothing but a faint breath of air between their bodies. She holds herself just a little away from him however, her lips slightly parted, her hands trembling with the desire, the _need_ to touch him, but she restrains herself, allowing him the choice, the affirming action, of closing the distance between them. He does, unable to stand being this close to her but not touching her, not letting her touch him. Moving in until their bodies press against each other and he can feel the sigh of relief ripple through her body as she lets herself melt against him, Azriel gathers her against him, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in close.  

Slowly she arches up on her toes and nuzzles against his neck, breathing in his scent and pulling him closer. Her lips murmur over his skin, gentle but hot, the pressure flaring over his skin like shooting stars blazing across a night sky, sudden, fleeting but...intense and consuming, every one, kindling life in his shattered, exhausted soul. Her teeth drag over his pulse and it’s taking every shred of his considerable self control not to let himself go and claim her the way he wants to.

 Most nights he is slow, so slow, so gentle, so loving and tender, focused upon her, her pleasure. He can never let go of that completely but tonight...Tonight he wants to lose a little of that composure, a little of that restraint, he doesn’t want to softly, sweetly make love to her; he wants to fuck her, wants to press her down onto the bed behind them and _feel_ the pleasure that would burn through her.

Mor nips at his earlobe, the sharp pinch making him jolt slightly, drawing him back to her, anchoring him in her. “Yes,” she murmurs softly in his ear and it sounds like a blessing, like a gift, like an answer to the darker thoughts shifting beneath the surface of his twisted skin.

She cups his face in her hand and draws his mouth down to hers. Her lips are open for him and he doesn’t resist the slide of their tongues meeting after the initial rough clash of teeth. Heat ripples between them and as he pulls her closer, as she grinds a little against him, body slowly matching the movements of their mouths against each other. He can scent the arousal on her. Az groans into the kiss, his hand tightening where it’s anchored around her waist, nails biting into the thin strip of flesh that’s become bare from the way she’s arched up against him.

“Yes,” she breathes again, the word thick and heavy with the heat pulled from their kiss and it trembles through him like a cobweb stirred by a sudden gasp of wind.

 Lust settles in her eyes the way the coil of desire sinks into the pit of his stomach as he looks at her, understands that this _is_ an answer to his turbulent thoughts. She’s giving him permission to have that, to have _her_ , however he wants her, however he needs her. She’s offering him all of herself, offering up her submission, her trust to him, to even this darker, wilder side of him. All of him. All of him. She hadn’t exaggerated when she had told him that that was what she had chosen. Every part of him. Even this one.

She takes his hand in hers again and she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver from this path, her eyes never leaving his as she draws him back towards the bed. “Yes,” she whispers again. Her body arches towards his on instinct even though a clear foot of space now separates them; instinctively seeking with a fervour that ignores the boundary of the empty space between them.  

But it’s not until her lips form themselves around the hoarse, desperate, “ _Please_ ,” that he lets himself surge for her at last.

His body crashes against hers and in that moment he’s struck by how much larger than her he is. It’s easy to forget sometimes. Her power and her personality are both so radiant, constantly in danger of spilling over the surface of her that he can forget how much bigger his body is compared to hers, how dwarfed she is by him, how thoroughly he envelopes her when he draws her to him like this. She’s in no way intimidated by it, stepping eagerly into his embrace, gripping his biceps tightly and urging more from him. Trusting him.

Mor lets a soft whimper slip from between her lips as he breaks the rough kiss and drags his mouth almost immediately down to her neck. He wants to kiss every part of her, taste every part of her, touch her everywhere, have every inch of her body against his all at once. Even caught in this new, enthralling hurricane of want and frenzied need, his lips still move instinctively against the spots that make her tremble the most in his arms, the spots that cause heat to swell in her belly and the scent of her arousal to tug even more heavily at his senses, intoxicating like the trail of perfume that leads to her after she’s passed through a room.

Her hands are the first to move from where they grip him for purchase. Her fingers, thick and clumsy with pleasure and lust, tug and work at the fastenings of his flying leathers. He lets her free him of them, moving away from her just long enough to let the garment drop away before he leans in again, drawing her into him and pressing her against his bare chest. She whines and reaches up to kiss him again, her hands cupping his face between them, fingers sliding deeply into his hair.

The need to have her bare before him, to have her pressed into him, skin against skin, is overwhelming, stronger than the need to eat, the need to breathe, the need for his heart to keep beating in time with hers. His fingers tug at the laces that run along her spine, keeping her loose while blouse held together. With a soft, impatient snarl he pulls sharply at the bottom of the shirt and the laces tear free. The sound of ripping fabric splits the taut silence between them and Mor gasps at the feeling as he shoves the garment that now hangs loosely from her body to the ground and pulls her against him. Nothing separates their sweat slick torsos now but the comfortable, plain bra that he wastes no time in ridding her of.

The smooth heat of her body against his soothes a deep ache in him and he lets himself pause for a moment, just a moment, to indulge in this, in her. Looking down at her, panting slightly, he eases his fingers into her hair and draws her lips up to meet his. This kiss is no less intense than the ones they’ve already shared tonight but it is softer, warmer, gentler than the ones that have gone before it. It’s also deeper and longer and he feels the way her arms wrap around him, the way she pulls him in, the way her lips part wanting more, seeking more, _needing_ more.

His hands settle with a feather light caress on her chest and drift slowly, almost absently down, sliding smoothly over the generous curves of her body. He only stops when fabric abruptly intrudes on the smooth, perfect lines of her body, like a deep crack in a marble statue. Without breaking the kiss his fingers deftly pop open the button on her trousers before he helps her to wriggle out of them, stripping her underwear off in the same motion.

They’re rarely this quick to rid each other of their clothes. It usually takes time, an intimate undressing, every piece of clothing removed a tease, a further turn of the screws as they wind one another’s anticipation higher and higher. But right now the anticipation for what’s to follow is already as high as it can be, wound to breaking point by their time apart and the manner of his return, the tension that was already threatening to snap his bones and shatter him. Only she can contain that amount of pain, only she can take him and coax him back to her, reshape him into the male she loves from the twisted ruined monster he had made of himself. Only her. Only her.  

She pays him back in kind for ripping her shirt, tearing open the laces of his trousers with a sharp jerk of her hands. Her chest is heaving as she drags in heavy breaths, her eyes are blazing and she bites her lip hard as she stares up at him, the two of them feeding the other’s desire and hunger, building and building and building up to heights that it becomes difficult to breathe at, drunk on one another. Mor sinks down to her knees before him, her eyes fixed on his as she tugs his trousers down and coaxes him to step out of them, peppering his thighs with soft kisses and nips of her teeth before he drags her back to her feet and tugs her against him, their bodies jolting against one another, two thunderclouds hurled against one another in a tortured, hungry sky.

“Azriel,” she whispers softly, her lips bending around his name as though it’s the only anchor she has on herself, the only thing that’s keeping her sane.

“ _Morrigan,”_ he answers, his voice a hoarse rasp of need for what’s to come and fulfilment at what she’s already given him.

She wraps her hands tightly around his and then backs up until she hits the edge of the bed, leading him with her. Then she sinks down onto it, coaxing him with her and they sprawl together in a messy tangle, their bodies quickly making a mess of the pristine silk sheets beneath them. He holds himself over her, kissing her, nudging them higher and higher up the bed until she’s panting and comfortably settled against the pillows near the headboard.

Her eyes are filled with so much tender love as she looks up at him where he holds himself over her that he feels for a moment as though he might drown in it. Reaching down he brushes his knuckles slowly along the line of her jaw, swirling up to her cheek until her eyes drift shut. They open again at the soft rustle that is all the sound his wings make as he unfurls them. Her lips part slightly as he slowly spreads them out over them, her vision suddenly dominated by a taut black sky rippling with faint whispers of colour, bright stria in inky marble.

“Az-“ she begins again but the rest of her words are brought up short as he ducks down and swallows them in another bruising kiss. Her hands rise up around him, nails digging sharply into his shoulders as she clings to him, her body lifting a little from the bed beneath them, a silent plea for more.

His hand trails down her body, pausing to slide under her thigh, lifting her leg and coaxing it to hook around his hip. She obliges him and a moment later her heel is digging into her lower back as his fingertips start ghosting lightly over the soft, creamy skin of her inner thighs. She lifts her hips from the mattress again, trying to cause his fingers to slip higher to where she wants them. A soft smile tugs at his lips, usually he would push her back down, make her wait, but the ache to be in her is nearly overwhelming him so he swipes a finger through her folds instead.

They both groan at the feeling. She’s already wet for him but he wants more from her and drags his fingers up to press and circle over her clit the way he knows she likes. A faint, broken moan is his answer and she throws an arm over her face, struggling to control herself. The hand he doesn’t have buried between her thighs gently coaxes her back. He wants to see her face, wants to see every soft crease and line of pleasure pressed into it as he dips a finger into her, testing her. Mor moans again and Az slides his free hand along the arm he had just tugged onto the pillow beside her head. He stops when his fingers tangle with hers and she squeezes tightly- an acknowledgement of the pleasure he’s inspiring in her already and....And a request for more.

“Are you ready?” he asks her, scraping her hair back from where it’s plastered itself against her forehead.

She knows what he’s asking, what he wants. She nods urgently, swallowing tightly, struggling to get the words out that she knows he needs to hear. “Yes,” she manages at last, “Yes, please-“

She breaks off as he eases into her in one smooth, fluid stroke. Mor moans softly, arching her head back against the pillows. One of his hands slides gently under her hips and the other eases into her hair, gently tilting her head back towards him so he can see her, the pleasure written across her face as he starts to move in her, harder and firmer than usual but not too much. Even now he’s careful to maintain a bit of restraint, keep himself at least partially in check for her sake.

“Az,” she whispers softly. Her arms drape loosely around his neck, fingers winding into his hair, while her legs hook around his waist. Her hips buck up against him, meeting each thrust, but her pace is slightly faster and sharper than his. After looking into her eyes, finding fierce certainty blazing there he matches her. She moans again.

Az closes his eyes and buries his face in against the crook of her neck, groaning as pleasure surges through him each time he snaps his hips into hers and feels her respond in kind. Her hands are buried at his shoulders, gripping onto him as best she can. He arches into her, letting out a soft gasp as her nails rake down his back along the length of his spine, leaving thin red marks in his tan skin.

Leaning down, panting, he nuzzles gently at the soft skin just over the place where her pulse pounds, faster and harder than it had before. Her hair smells of her favourite cherry scented soap and it mingles with the other scents that are strong in his notes, their sex swelling through him and _her_ , the rich spice of cinnamon and the bright tang of citrus the perfect blend for her, his Morrigan.

This is bliss, to have her in his arms again, to be able to hold her, kiss her, touch her. The feeling of being inside her again after their time spent apart, the reality always more exquisite than any fantasy his mind could construct in the cold, lonely beds in which he spent the time away from her.

The peace that envelopes him now is somehow a deeper sort of heaven than the simple, physical pleasure they share together. If she wasn’t wrapped so tightly around him, holding him so close, pressing his name into his ears over and over he might have thought he had died and allowed his tattered soul to find its way somewhere quiet and still, untroubled and no longer haunted at last. Free. Free at last. Being with her like this, losing himself in her so completely brings that same sense of calm, that same sense of release, of happiness, of finally being enough, finally being able to breathe.

The scent of her surrounds him like a veil and he drags it deep into himself, letting it flood his lungs like pipe smoke, rich and heady and intoxicating. It fills him, burning through his system like strong liquor, bringing him back to life again, back to her. The feeling of her smooth skin flowing beneath his hands like liquid marble, supple and effortless. The heat and shape of her mouth, the perfect match to his, draws back him to kiss her again and again and again. He can feel her want, her desperation, the way it radiates between the fractional gap between their bodies that he closes, pressing down against her, feeling her shudder of relief at the tension the motion quells. The love that he feels for her, that burns brighter in him, a talisman against the dark, with every thrust into her, every whimper he draws from her lips, every gasp, every lick of heat between them. He is surrounded by her, consumed by her, saved by her, her, her, her, her, _her_. His destruction; his salvation, a constant balance, fire that ruins him, undoes the tangled pieces of his self and reduces him to ash and how he will constantly rise from that just to see her smile again, a constant cycle of life and death and rebirth, all held safe within her heart.  

 His fingers stroke lightly through her hair, the gentle motion at odds with the heavy thrust of his hips. Her lips part, another soft moan spilling into the silence, and he can’t resist the urge to have his mouth on hers again, to taste his name on her tongue.

It tastes like the first clear breath of mountain air that hits him whenever he flies over his favourite Illyrian peaks, like the world after a heavy downpour of rain – a scent that’s engraved onto his memory as the first thing that had filled his lungs after they had finally let him out of the dark cell he had spent most of his childhood in to go to the camps to train. It feels like the first brush of the shadows that had curled over his skin and told him not to be afraid – and how it was to realise that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t. It feels the way it does every time he spreads his wings and launches himself into the sky, not for the simple pleasure of it or because the wind truly sings in his blood but because, even now, it still reminds him that he’s free. As she does.

Pleasure builds in his core, tightening there, and he knows as he moves in her that he’s close. The thrill of taking her like this, how new it is, how unusual for them combined with the hard, fast release that’s been building all night finally finding an outlet in this is too much. His hand fists itself tightly in her hair and he ducks, pressing his lips against her throat once more. His fingers find their way between her thighs, coaxing her higher and the breathy whimper she lets out in response makes the need for release burning in his blood even more intense. He needs her, needs her, _needs_ her- But he can’t, he can’t, not before her, not when she isn’t ready yet.

Mor’s legs are hooked loosely around his hips, her body moving in perfect sync with his. Her hands reach up and slide into his hair, clinging onto him. Her eyes flutter open, meeting his, their breath mingling in the space between their lips. “Come, Az,” she whispers quietly, nodding her head, giving him permission.

He groans, unable to stop his hips snapping sharply into hers as lust blazes through him. In spite of that he shakes his head sharply, dipping down and pressing soft kisses against her neck. She’s not close enough yet, he knows that, she must know it too but- “Come, Azriel,” she urges, her voice stronger this time, her hips arching up against his.

Hearing her urge him on, knowing that this can only be about his pleasure, his release, what he needs in this moment, ruins him. But he still stubbornly grits his teeth, holding himself back for her even as his rhythm becomes erratic and a little rougher than before. He wants it, he wants to do what she’s coaxing him to, he wants to lose himself in her entirely, to come inside her and not think about consequences for once, to take what she’s offering and let himself be selfish for once, for just a moment. But...

“Morrigan,” he breathes softly, nipping gently at her neck, trying to communicate without the words he doesn’t have, tell her he loves her, he wants this to be good for her as well, that he doesn’t want this to be simply about him taking his release from her.

Huffing almost irritably at his reaction Mor reaches up and brushes her fingers lightly over one of the wings he has spread above them. He gasps, hips jerking into her, making her whine, but she doesn’t stop.

“ _Morrigan_ ,” he gasps again, his spine arching instinctively but she just smiles wickedly.

Her nail drags lightly along the outside ridge of his wing until she reaches the top, the small, smooth hollow just beneath the razor curve of talon. She starts stroking the spot in steady, rhythmic circles and the breath chokes out of him in response as pleasure spikes through him and it’s too much, it’s too much, she must know that it is, that he can’t, not when she-

“Mor-“ he groans, his voice cracking  before he can get her name out properly, the way she likes.  

Her fingers move more rapidly against his wing, matching the rhythm and pressure of his thrusts inside her and pleasure is tightening low in his stomach and he can’t, he can’t. One of his hands snaps out blindly, gripping the headboard behind her for support, the wood groaning at the strength of his hold. The other slides between her thighs again but she lets out an impatient snarl at the movement and catches his wrist with her free hand, dragging him away, focusing on him, only him.

“Come for me, Azriel,” she orders, her voice a low, rough growl, her hips surging up against his, urging him harder, deeper inside her.

The sound of her insistence, the focus on his pleasure, his needs, from her- this woman he loves with every whisper of breath left in his lungs- is too much. He shatters inside her with a low groan that might have been her name before it became muddled by the heavy taint of his pleasure. She moans softly in the back of her throat, her legs tightening around his hips, pulling him against her.

His hands have fisted themselves in the sheets on either side of her body and he grips them more tightly still as he struggles to come down from the orgasm that’s still pulsing through him. He keeps his face buried against her neck, every muscle in his body trembling from the intensity of his climax. His lips are parted and his breath huffs out against her sweat damp skin. Vaguely, he’s aware of her fingers lightly, absently trailing through his hair as she murmurs incoherently to him.

Finally managing to lift himself he cradles her face in his hand and kisses her, still shaking. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, unable to stop the words spilling from him as he strokes the tips of his fingers gently through her hair. “Mor, I’m sorry-“

She sighs, wriggling irritably under him, words still a little breathless but just as firm, “Don’t be stupid, Az.” There’s a trace of exasperated fondness in her words as she nuzzles against him.  

He leans down and captures her mouth with his, kissing her deeply, putting all of his gratitude, all of his love for her into that kiss. She responds in kind, arching against him, trembling slightly, her arms wrapping once more around his neck, careful of his wings now, knowing how sensitive he is. Her lips part hungrily for him and she doesn’t wait for him to answer but greedily slides her tongue into his mouth, whimpering a little at the same time.

The kiss is still dripping with heat and desire. Even though she had coaxed him to come for her he can feel the heat still radiating from her, the scent of her arousal still thick in his nose and he has no intention of leaving her frustrated.

Drawing his lips from hers he slides them to her neck, kissing hard, sucking until each press of his lips leaves a mark against her skin. Experience tells him that they bruises they’ll fade to will be gone entirely by the time morning comes but something deep and primal in him still growls its approval at this- the same way it responds to the marks she leaves on his back and arms from her nails.

Only once a ring of soft red prints ghosts around her slender throat like an intimate necklace does he allow himself to move on, teeth dragging over her collarbone, down, down until he reaches her breasts. Her nipples are already hard but he drags them between his fingers anyway, knowing she likes the way his rough calluses scrape over her. She moans faintly and he ducks down to take one in his mouth, his hand continuing to work the other until she’s arching against him with need.

Once he’s satisfied with the level of desperation his actions have managed to inject into the breathy little moans that manage to escape the tight press of her lips he continues. His lips skim over the rolling planes of her stomach before murmuring down over her navel and then...He draws away, shifting his position until he kneels comfortably between her thighs, stroking his hands gently up and down along the insides of them. Mor shudders, his purpose achingly clear now, emphasised further as he slides down off of the bed and tugs her gently over the silk sheets towards him, hooking her legs gently over his shoulders.

“Az-“ she begins, her words low and straining with the effort it takes to control herself enough to get them out. “Az, you don’t have to- I only wanted to take care of you, you don’t need to reciproca-“

He cuts her off with an impatient, indignant little huff and firmly silences any further protests she might stubbornly have tried to make by putting his mouth on her. All it takes is a single stroke of his tongue through her slick folds and any thought of trying to insist that he doesn’t have to feel obliged to see to her pleasure as well is immediately forgotten.

He licks her a few more times, slow, controlled, how he likes to be with her then draws away, humming contently, “You taste divine, Morrigan,” he informs her, simply, pleasantly, as though making a comment on the weather. It makes her choke off a whimper when he returns to her a moment later, growling his further approval at her wetness.

He works her steadily, not rushing things, taking his time, making sure she enjoys every press of his tongue against her, every murmur of his lips, every long, slow lick through her folds, but he doesn’t tease her as he usually will. Every movement is designed to push her a little closer and a little closer and it’s not long before she’s falling back against her pillows in ecstasy, her hips bucking helplessly against his mouth. He allows her this little bit of boldness and demand and falls into the rhythm of her steadily rocking hips.  

“Azriel,” she whimpers, tugging sharply on his hair and he pauses, looking up at her from between her thighs, making her whine when she meets his eyes.

“Are you close, love?” he asks her quietly, softly rubbing his nose against the inside of her thigh as he gazes at her with such devotion.  

She nods urgently, “Yes,” she whispers, her voice cracking with need, “Yes, Az but I need, I need-“ He lifts one of his hands where he had anchored it in the sheets and traces soft patterns over her skin, so near where he wants her.

“My fingers in you?” he asks her quietly, not needing her to truly ask for it, not needing her to tell him to know what she craves from him. But a small, wicked part of him wants to hear her say it.

“Yes,” she pants back, hips lifting urgently from the bed again, seeking his touch, his tongue. “Two,” she orders him bluntly, “Now.”

He can’t help the soft laugh that huffs from him at that and a part of him can’t believe at how easily it comes to him, the lightness, the humour, the smile that tugs at his lips even after the laughter has died. But she has always been able to do this with him, always been able to gentle him, soothe him, comfort him without him even realising that she was doing so until he found this side of him again, the side that can laugh and smile and find joy in the world once more.

“You’re bossy tonight,” he observes quietly, nuzzling again her skin.

Impatiently snarling “ _Azriel_ ,” is her only response to this and it draws another soft laugh from him.

Without making her wait any longer, Az buries his mouth between her thighs again, doing as she requested. It’s all too easy to slide one finger, then a second, into her and she cries out in pleasure at the feel of him in her, fingers crooking slightly as he pumps them steadily in and out, increasing his pace to match the frantic rocking of her hips against his hand. His name falls out of her mouth again and again and again, breathless and thoughtless, spilling out because she can’t help herself, because she’s so close that it doesn’t matter if she cries out, if she begs because she just needs the climax he’s building her towards so badly.

With one final press of his fingers and swift, hot lick of his tongue she shatters around him, one hand in his hair the other bunching the sheets up inside her fist. He guides her gently through the aftershocks, gives her a rough handful of heartbeats to collect herself then pulls her against his mouth once more, wanting to hear her make those sounds for him again before the sun rises behind the mountains beyond.  

But Mor tugs feebly at his hair, hoarsely asking him to stop and he obeys her at once, a flicker of concern blooming in him before he sees her face. It’s split into a soft, warm smile, her eyelids heavy with pleasure and satisfaction as she coaxes him back onto the bed beside her, content for the night, just wanting to hold him.

Azriel smiles and crawls back up onto the bed, helping to gently tug her body back up towards the pillows, pressing her in against him. Stroking her hair and smoothing it down he presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, nose nuzzling softly through her thick blonde curls. She presses back in against him with a soft, happy sigh, taking his arm and draping it over her body, holding his hand against her chest, just over her heart, lacing their fingers together. He smiles at her blunt insistence and cuddles in against her, moulding his body more seamlessly around hers.

“I love you, Azriel,” she mumbles thickly, her breathing already starting to even out, becoming smoother, more rhythmic as she drifts through the gentle no-man’s land of peace and relief between desperate need and sleep.

He strokes her hair tenderly away from her ear with the back of his fingers then leans down to murmur quietly, “I love you too, Morrigan.” Even though they’ve been together, been openly saying those words to one another in this way for decades now, the fact that he can tell her this still sends a little thrill shivering along his spine every time he does.

After a moment she seems unhappy with their current arrangement and he frowns a little, a line creasing between his brows as she wriggles and squirms into a position that suits her better. She settles once she lies on her side again, pressed into him but facing him this time. She strokes his cheek so gently with the tips of her fingers, her warm brown eyes meeting his. Then she slowly wraps her arms around him, holding him a moment before the lure of sleep tugs at him and some deep instinct rears in protest, fearing the nightmares that will no doubt come with it.

“Shh,” Mor murmurs quietly to him, gently rubbing his back, using the same broad, circular motions he always employs to calm her when she’s upset or afraid. “Shh, Az, it’s all right now,” she breathes, nuzzling affectionately at his neck. “You’re home,” she says, these words as much for her as they are for him. She closes her eyes, breathing him in, squeezing him a little more tightly, “You’re home, you’re safe, it’s over now. It’s all over.”

 He extends one of his wings and carefully drapes it over her, cocooning them both within the soothing black shell of darkness, an escape from reality. Through the dark silence that envelopes them he hears her whisper gently, “Sleep, Az, I won’t let anything hurt you now.” And he finds himself obeying her, trusting her, closing his eyes and letting his body relax against her.

 Her steady, warm presence soothes him, calms him, comforts him, makes him feel a little less...heavy. Sleep takes him not long after, drifting off to the soft sounds of her steady breathing, the achingly right feel of her heart beating in time with his once more.

****

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! It feels like ages since I've written any moriel and definitely any moriel smut so feedback would be lovely!!


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